Chapter Ten #3
‘—worked very hard as a matchmaker,’ Calliope was saying from a long way away. ‘And though we sometimes went without, we…we made do.’
‘Then you…you were not…you did not have…’ He swallowed. There was no delicate way to ask this, which usually meant it was not a question to be asked.
Calliope’s light laughter followed him in the dance as Montague stepped back and allowed the couple to their right to step forward. ‘Yes, we were poor. That is what you wished to ask, is it not?’
Montague cleared his throat gruffly. ‘No. Yes.’
And he recalled the way her eyes had sparkled when he had suggested a prize of one thousand pounds.
One thousand pounds to him was a large sum, to be sure, but it was less than ten percent of his annual income.
He would hardly miss it. Hell, he had put that money aside already to purchase a Glenarm, and now he knew the mysterious Glenarm was secretly Miss Calliope Oliver, he would hardly notice its absence.
But a thousand pounds was a great sum to others.
Not now, of course. Miss Calliope Oliver was surely Glenarm and, unless she had been living an unusually decadent lifestyle, she had surely enjoyed a pleasant enough existence on the many guineas she had earned as the mysterious artist.
‘You do not have to worry. You will not win this art competition, so you will not have to suffer forming a connection to such a lowly family,’ Calliope said stiffly as the dance demanded she step forward into his arms.
Montague did so eagerly and felt a rush of warmth cascade through him as he said fiercely, ‘I would never be ashamed of a connection with you, Miss Oliver. And I don’t intend to be, when I win and claim your hand.’
Her lips parted, undoubtedly to say something outraged, but something quite unexpected happened instead.
She tripped.
Perhaps Montague should not have been surprised. Calliope had proven herself to be a tad lax on her feet when they had met at the clifftop. It had been wonderful for those brief moments to hold the fuming woman in his arms.
It was even more wonderful to do so now. No spencer between them, no shawl, it was only a light silk gown between his fingertips and the achingly ardent woman this time.
Montague stood there, in the centre of the Assembly Rooms ballroom, Calliope in his arms looking up at him with something like desire and shock, and it was as though they were the only people in existence.
Just her, fiery, willing and upturning her lips towards him, and himself, strong and steadying, clasping her to him in an embrace he had longed for, though he had not known it.
Just five heartbeats. One, two, three, four, five.
That was all Montague was permitted before the world rushed back in with titters and gasps, and he looked around to realise the entire Assembly Rooms was staring at him.
Him, standing there with Calliope in his arms, in the middle of the dance set.
Calliope tugged herself away with crimson cheeks. ‘Th—Thank you, my lord, I almost tripped!’
She did not so much say the words as yell them and Montague gave a brief jerk of his head in acknowledgement.
Yes, it was important that she made clear to the crowd precisely why the Marquess of Laidley had pulled her into what had certainly looked like an embrace.
Because she had tripped.
Not because she had slipped into his arms a little too easily.
Not because he had wanted her there, pulled her closer and tighter than was necessary.
Not because her hands had burned against his chest as they splayed against his waistcoat.
Not because the weight of her hip against his own was the only thing he ever wanted to feel.
Well. Not quite…
‘You dance very well,’ Calliope said curtly as she turned on the spot, once again following the steps of the dance.
Montague remembered he could speak. ‘Thank you. So—so do you.’
You do everything well, he wanted to say. And I cannot want you to win this dratted art competition now because if you win, I’ll lose you.
I’ll lose any chance to have you.
‘Are you quite well?’
Calliope’s voice was concerned and it snapped Montague out of whatever foolishness he had managed to sink himself into.
He did not care about Miss Calliope Oliver. He was impressed by her, yes. He wanted to own her art, own a true Glenarm, yes. He found himself remarkably comfortable in her presence and thought she would make a splendidly sensual wife, yes.
But that did not mean he cared for her. His actual emotions were not involved, Montague told himself sternly as the dance came to an end and he bowed low at his partner.
His Calliope.
‘Thank you for the dance, my lord,’ Calliope said lightly, her eyes full of meaning Montague could not decipher.
Clearing his throat did not suffice, so Montague coughed before saying with a curt nod, ‘And you, Miss Oliver. If you will excuse me.’
As he marched out of the ballroom, out of the Assembly Rooms themselves, he did not look back. He would not allow himself to look back…for fear she had already started speaking to another.